


truth runs wild (like a tear down a cheek)

by wartimelovers



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Love Confessions, M/M, i mean like a bit of fluff but fluff nonetheless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 07:52:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19246969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wartimelovers/pseuds/wartimelovers
Summary: How do you let someone know you love them?Opposite him Aziraphale moved and opened his eyes to look at him. His eyebrows burrowed together slightly. With terror growing inside his chest, Crowley realised he asked that out loud. So clearly now, he could almost see the question hanging heavy in the small space between them. Crowley opened his mouth to undo the damage but Aziraphale spoke before he could.“Well, first step would be telling them,” the angel said, serious look still on his face.or sometimes, if you're an angel and a demon in love, it takes you 6000 years and some misunderstandings to get it right.





	truth runs wild (like a tear down a cheek)

**Author's Note:**

> idk about this man 
> 
> like i clearly have so many feelings about zira and mr anthony janthony crowley but did i put it in the words right? idk 
> 
> let me know what you think, it is greatly appreciated and makes me feel a bit better so 
> 
> as always, this work is dedicated to my true inspiration and my best friend. if you see this, know i miss you very much. also love you to death

It was a beautiful, warm and sunny day in a small Italian village not that far away from Florence. Afternoon sun was painting wonders on the surface of the lake and the slight breeze was rocking the grass and bushes to sleep. The birds were chirping in the trees and the insects were flying about, buzzing happily. By all accounts, this afternoon could have been described as perfect. Miraculously perfect, one might have even dared to say. 

In a safe distance from the lake, Aziraphale was lying down on a small blanket. The beauty of the afternoon was not his doing, though it might be safely suspected that wherever he went, nature took inspiration from his soft aura and followed suit. The angel was propped on his elbows, pastries and wine by his side now long forgotten, and was watching Crowley skim pebbles across the otherwise calm water surface. It was incredibly enjoyable to observe the demon engaging in such a simple, human-like activity, even though Aziraphale was fairly certain that Crowley was only doing that to see if he could hit some of the ducks with the pebbles.

Aziraphale got up, straightened his trousers and walked up to his companion. His friend. He dipped his toes in lukewarm water at first, and then stepped a little bit closer, ankle-deep, right next to Crowley. The demon stopped throwing pebbles and straightened up to look at him. 

“Fancy a swim across the lake?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Why not?” Crowley shrugged noncommittedly. Before Aziraphale could even lift a finger, an ornate wooden boat materialised in front of them. Aziraphale made sure to give Crowley the biggest of his smiles. “Yes, yes,” Crowley said, impatient, and waved towards the boat, “get in, angel.” 

And so, they sat opposite each other in the boat and set out for the centre of the lake. None of them spoke as to not ruin the magical, electrifying silence. Once they reached their destination, Aziraphale leaned back, closed his eyes and turned his face towards the sun. He looked content, somewhat like a cat that is just about to start purring.

Crowley, on the other hand, kept his eyes wide open and observed his friend. In the grand scheme of things, he perfectly understood how anyone who ever met Aziraphale fell instantly in love with him – not only his beautiful cherubic face or his ever-curious eyes which always looked at the world as if seeing it for the first time, but with his overwhelming kindness and warm aura. In that same grand scheme of things, Crowley could not at all comprehend how he, a demon, a creature of hell, could also fall in love with him. Given his everlasting love of dramatics, most of the argument he’d go over and over in his head was quite exaggerated. He was a demon, yes, but a demon who not so much fell as sauntered vaguely downwards. A demon who took his mission of spewing misery and hellfire upon the earth rather leisurely. Still, a demon. And alas, Aziraphale was an angel. 

Throughout the centuries passed both of them seemed to make peace with their strange choice of earthly companions and moved onto happier things, like thoroughly enjoying each other’s presence, even if they didn’t always admit it. Throughout the centuries Crowley also worked towards making his peace with the fact that he was doomed (more so than ever) since the very moment when Aziraphale put his wing over his head to shield him from first raindrops ever. He’s been back and forth, really, in the mental trial in which he was both the prosecution and the accused and decided that the fact that he loves Aziraphale wholly and truly is as undisputable as the fact that the sun rises every morning and sets down every night. There was just the tiny matter of telling Aziraphale that. 

Now, in moments like these, Crowley sometimes could believe that Aziraphale loved him too. And not just in the way an angel is supposed to love all living things, demons included. In moments where it seemed like it was just the two of them in the whole wide world, when the earth was quiet, Crowley’s mind wandered freely across hundreds of years filled with memories of Aziraphale. He’d focus on the spark in his eyes whenever Crowley would surprise him or save him or just do something decent for once. Aziraphale’s love was worth bringing unpleasant conversations with his superiors upon himself.

But there was persisting consistency as to how Aziraphale clung to the divisions between them no matter how much Crowley tried to blur them. Granted, if he wanted to stay on earth he had to tempt and he had to be wily once in a while, but he always hoped that the little good deeds, no matter how small, would somehow count in the eyes of one certain angel. With a heavy heart, after a millennium or so of trying, he could see very little progress. 

How do you let someone know you love them? 

Opposite him Aziraphale moved and opened his eyes to look at him. His eyebrows burrowed together slightly. With terror growing inside his chest, Crowley realised he asked that out loud. So clearly now, he could almost see the question hanging heavy in the small space between them. Crowley opened his mouth to undo the damage but Aziraphale spoke before he could. 

“Well, first step would be telling them,” the angel said, serious look still on his face. 

Crowley scoffed. “Wonderful, thank you, hadn’t thought of that.” 

Aziraphale tilted his head to the side slightly and pursed his lips, a look of small disappointment Crowley saw too often for his liking. In these moments, he always wanted to take back what he said and apologise, but never did, be that his pride, fear or demonic habit. He waited for Aziraphale to respond but the angel remained silent. 

“What if,” Crowley finally managed, “you didn’t know how to tell them?” 

“Why exactly are you asking me this, Crowley?” Aziraphale replied. There was no evident harshness in his voice, just well-intended curiosity and this sweet, sweet warmth. 

“Just answer the question, alright?” came an abrasive answer. Aziraphale all but sighed and shifted in his seat, crossing and then uncrossing his legs as if he suddenly couldn’t get comfortable.

“Love is never just words, my dear boy,” the angel said, after a moment of silence. “True love is shown by the actions of the individual.” He paused and turned his absent gaze to the glimmering water. “Actions speak louder than words, after all. So, if one loved somebody, one certainly ought to make an effort of showing that love through acts of kindness.” 

Crowley felt a sharp pang of pain somewhere around his gut. Was that not what he was doing? Or was it not obvious? Or not enough? Thankfully, he managed to keep these questions to himself. Instead, he said, “And you lot can tell if you’re in the presence of love, right? Or so you say at least?”

“Yes,” came a short reply. 

“Hm,” replied Crowley in a similar manner. “Can I tempt you to another glass of wine, then?” he asked, taking the paddles into his hands. 

Aziraphale nodded with a smile, “That’d be lovely.” 

By far, all accounts taken into consideration, that day was the most magical out of all days in the year 1466. 

*** 

Some five hundred and seven years later, Crowley was sitting comfortably in his favourite chair in the back section of London’s most peculiar bookshop and London’s most peculiar bookseller was coming through the door with two cups of steaming hot cocoa even though Crowley said he didn’t want one. Aziraphale set the mugs on the small table and soon enough he, too, sunk into comfortable pillows of a chair opposite Crowley’s. 

“How would you feel about a concert tonight?” asked Crowley. His hand has found its way to a longer stand of his hair and, almost as if it had its own free will, began curling the hair around it. Crowley almost regretted pitching anxious hair fiddling to one of his demonic colleagues. 

“Oh, what do you have in mind?” Aziraphale perked up in his seat. “Opera? Ah, a string quartet?”

Crowley squinted. “Uh, yeah, sure,” he said. “Something along these lines.” 

The club in Charing Cross that Crowley led Aziraphale later that evening was rather stuffy and small. Or rather maybe it looked small due to the mass of bodies crowding together on the dancefloor in front of a brightly lit stage. The concert had already started and the frontman was prancing about the stage, bending his body in various positions against various people and objects. The bright neon sign behind the members of the band proudly stated QUEEN. 

Crowley turned around to face Aziraphale, whose cheeks turned slightly red, be it from embarrassment or the building heat of the room. 

“What do you think?” 

“I think,” Aziraphale said slowly, “that I am a little bit overdressed and that they are being rather loud.” Whether he meant the musicians or the crowd was left unsaid. 

“First of all, you always look like that and you refuse to change,” Crowley shot back, “and second of all, maybe you’d be able to appreciate modern music a little bit more if you took your head out of the 19th century once in a while!” 

“Yes, perhaps,” Aziraphale sighed, “but how can I do that when Tchaikovsky’s pieces evoke such emotions in me?” 

It was Crowley’s turn to sigh and he did so rather dramatically. Aziraphale just looked at him with the same lost puppy expression he had for the centuries past, and, in the past, Crowley really had thought that at some point it would get annoying, but that moment never came. In his book, the angel could rarely do anything wrong. 

“Come on,” he said then and grabbed his companion by the wrist. Soon enough they were pushing through the crowd and, miraculously enough, have found a good spot not that far from the stage. 

“What now?” Aziraphale shouted over the music. “What shall we do now?” 

“Now you enjoy yourself,” Crowley shouted back, already moving a little bit to the music. It was genuinely amusing to watch Aziraphale look around and mouth “How?” at him. “Well, for starters, you loosen up a bit and you dance, angel.” 

“Angels don’t dance.”

“Oh, some of them do,” Crowley said, “or so I’ve heard from a certain gentleman near Portland Place a while back.” 

Aziraphale’s blush began to spread from his cheeks to the top of his ears. “Well, gavotte seems hardly fitting in this-” he began to say, but before he could finish his sentence, Crowley grabbed him by the hands and spun him around, music and rhythm be damned. 

They’ve continued like this, dancing completely off beat, together and separately, through the songs that came and the evening seemed never-ending in its thrill. Seeing Crowley like this was very rare, so carefree and almost happy, almost smiling like he means it, not sarcastic, not demonic, just an immortal entity enjoying their moments on earth fully and wholly. It was one of Aziraphale’s most cherished sights and for that he was immensely grateful to the loud band called QUEEN that they brought him Crowley he hasn’t seen in a very long time. 

It was to be one of the band’s final songs when Crowley spun him around again, chuckling when he stumbled. And stumbled Aziraphale did, out of his spin and right into the open arms of his companion. Crowley’s breath was caught somewhere in his throat when the angel landed in his arms, their noses almost touching, as the song slowed in its tracks, and the world seemed to cease to exist around them. 

Now, with Aziraphale’s beautiful eyes staring right into his, piercing through him with the intensity of their gaze, really, felt like he was the star of a romantic comedy (that he helped to popularise as cheesy and cringe-worthy) and that was his big moment, the time when he finally gets the gi… centuries old angel who he knows better than the back of his hand. But alas, it was not a rom-com, cheesy or not, he reminded himself. 

And then, he was certain, Aziraphale leaned in just the slightest, his eyes flicking down to Crowley’s lips and quickly right up. 

But, in the end, it was Crowley who closed the distance between them. Their lips met and Crowley kissed his angel hungrily, pulling him closer, snug against his body. Aziraphale went smoothly and, even though he seemed to be a little taken aback by Crowley’s actions, he quickly began kissing back with the same verve. They moved together like that, perfectly, never breaking up for a breath of air they didn’t need. 

Soon enough, in their frantic ecstasy, Crowley’s hands moved down from where they were wrapped tightly around Aziraphale’s chest, and he ran them along the angel’s back. And that is when exactly, as though startled by the movement, Aziraphale opened his eyes and took an abrupt step back, effectively breaking out of Crowley’s grasp. 

His hair was in disarray from Crowley’s hands frantic presence, his lips were puffy and cheeks a shade of a bright red rose. The look in his eyes was something weird and wild, something Crowley hadn’t seen before, but was almost instantly sure that he wouldn’t like it. He extended his hand but the angel was too far away for him to touch. 

Crowley opened his mouth to say something, anything, beg him not to go, but alas, he was too late. Aziraphale was already turning around, a quick “I’m sorry” flying from his lips, albeit nobody knows whether it was directed at Crowley or the party-goers who he tried to gently squeeze past. 

*** 

Three weeks later Crowley was leaving a stuffy room in a Soho club, few hundred pounds lighter, and with one thought in mind: the robbery he’d just commissioned. He got into his car and was almost positively frightened by one calm Aziraphale sitting in the passenger seat. That same Aziraphale who avoided him for the past three weeks and haven’t said a word to him since what happened between them happened. 

Crowley just turned to him, lowered his sunglasses and raised his eyebrows. 

And so Aziraphale explained how he works in Soho and he hears things and that he knew about the robbery. Urged Crowley not to do it, which was, quite frankly, irritating. He knew exactly what was at stake there and having Aziraphale explain it to him accomplished nothing.

“You gave me your opinion some hundred years ago already,” Crowley reminded him coldly.

“And I still stand by that,” Aziraphale replied. “But I can’t have you risking your life. So here,” he said, pulling out a thermos and handing it to Crowley. “Don’t go unscrewing the cap.” 

Crowley, was, quite frankly, taken aback. Maybe like he’s never been before in his long existence. That Aziraphale would do this for him, after everything he said. He looked back at his friend but he was looking firmly ahead with stern expression on his face.

“Should I say thank you?” Crowley asked. 

A quick glance from Aziraphale. “Better not.” Almost a smile. 

Silence fell upon them. Crowley wanted, he wanted so many things. And he felt like he never felt before, so fully overwhelmed by feelings – love, regret, uncertainty. He wondered if in this small space of his car Aziraphale could sense his love for him. Or rather whether he wanted to.

“Well, can I drop you off anywhere?” he asked instead. 

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” Aziraphale said quickly. Another quick glance. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed. We could… go for a picnic someday. Or dine at the Ritz.” 

“Seriously, anywhere you wanna go…” 

Then, finally, Aziraphale turned to him fully with eyes filled with something akin to dread, lips pursed tightly together. “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” he said. It was quiet, but definitive. Filled with meaning. 

Before Crowley had any chance to reply, Aziraphale was out of the car and disappearing into the dark, cold night. 

***  
The next decade in Soho and surrounding areas can only be described as rather angry and quite chaotic. It was noticeable, albeit only to a quite observant eye, that people there got upset easier over smallest inconveniences and said inconveniences seemed to arise more often than before. A certain demon called Crowley worked rather hard that decade, maybe harder and with more purpose than ever before, on spreading small (and sometimes large) scale chaos on Soho’s streets and inside its shops. 

These evil events went around Aziraphale’s bookshop more often than not. He’d noticed, of course he did, and he knew it was all Crowley’s doing (for which reason, he wasn’t certain), but he made sure to arrive to soothe things only after the demon’s given up and left. He’d observe him, sometimes, in the old spots where they used to meet up. Crowley looked really tired for someone who couldn’t really tire and he always looked resentful and unhappy. It broke Aziraphale’s heart to see his friend, his best friend, like this. He also pointedly ignored waves of love, longing and sorrow coming off Crowley’s person. Either he tried too hard or the feelings were too strong, but one day he gave himself an artificial headache (or what he thought a headache would feel like) and had to go home to his flat and lie down. He didn’t get up for a week or so and more cars crashed into each other in that time period than ever noted before.

On the other side, Crowley understood quickly that working overtime on Hell’s behalf won’t bring Aziraphale back to him. It had occurred to him one May afternoon as he was walking past their usual bench at St. James’s Park. Seeing any remainder of his beloved angel (and they were everywhere, all around London, unyielding) made him ache deep inside and in a spur of the moment he wanted to set the bench on fire and watch it burn, get swept off the face of earth. And then it dawned on him how definite it would be and what Aziraphale would surely think if he saw it destroyed – that Crowley hated him, that he wanted to forget, or worse, take revenge. And Crowley wanted none of these things. 

Instead, then, he miracled striped and deep red carnations to grow around it. He left the park quickly after that. 

Since then, every time he would see something that reminded him of his beloved angel, he tried to improve it in his image, add something he thought Aziraphale would like. In this way, as quickly as the brutalist architecture (which Aziraphale disliked) spread across London, Crowley worked tirelessly (but slowly) to cover it in beautiful greenery arranged in compelling compositions. He took care of the carnations he planted in St. James’s Park, albeit a lot gentler than he treated the newly-acquired plants in his flat. 

Aziraphale noticed the good deeds that started appearing out of nowhere, too, of course, though he tried really hard not to think about them. The only time he truly felt like he might break down was when suddenly, as if it happened overnight, everyone around him started using the term “angel” as a term of endearment rather religiously. On one particular day, he closed the bookstore only after fifteen minutes of it being open to customers as he overheard a man telling his wife something along the lines of “anything for you, angel”. After everyone was gone, he sat down in what used to be Crowley’s favourite chair and wept silently for a good hour or so.

This continued for a few months or so, during which Crowley helped some ambitious humans open a crepes shop near Aziraphale’s bookshop, ensured its standard and saw to its popularity, planted even more flowers and trees, thus reducing air pollution slightly in the area. Then, they both got calls from their respective offices. The conversations, as you can imagine, were vastly different.

Aziraphale was commended for his apparent modesty and heavenly work in his closest neighbourhood and all of London, really. The angel calling him congratulated him especially on the idea of covering these forsaken brutalist buildings in beautiful flowers. 

“Quite a heavenly idea,” they chuckled. “Good job, dear Aziraphale, keep it up.”

Crowley, on the other hand, got scolded, as you can imagine, for allowing the most demonic invention of the decade – you’ve guessed it, brutalist architecture – to be covered in some flowers. Crowley sat by the phone with a straight face and felt as hollow as never before. Not that he enjoyed his demonic work greatly before, but at least hearing praise was good. But now… He was close to losing all hope on ever getting Aziraphale back – chaos didn’t help, goodness didn’t help. It seemed like nothing ever would. 

Then, someone rang the doorbell. Crowley got up, startled, and unceremoniously hung up the phone. It rang again, but he sent it straight to voicemail. He crossed the flat in three big steps and, with his heart on his sleeve, silently wishing for the best, opened the door. On his doorstep, there stood an angel called Aziraphale with a one of his Very Good Wines. He offered a soft smile, lifted the bottle up and asked if he could come in.

For Crowley’s part, he was stunned out of his mind. He politely stepped aside and let the angel in, still in deep disbelief. Of course, he hoped that it was him and was ready to turn anyone else on that doorstep into a pile of steaming ash. Yet still he couldn’t believe his eyes. 

He followed Aziraphale back into his living room, helpless and confused as if this weren’t his home. The angel set the wine on the table and turned around to face his friend, his demon, his Crowley. The expression on his face was warm and there was this sparkle in his eyes that Crowley so adored. 

“I have missed you too,” Aziraphale said simply, pulling a bouquet of red carnations as if from nowhere. He held them in the air for a bit but eventually placed them next to the wine, as Crowley remained unmoving. 

“Listen, my dear boy,” Aziraphale began gently after a short pause. He took a shaky breath and closed the distance between them so they weren’t further away from each other than a hand could reach. “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have left you like this and for that I am sincerely sorry.” 

“Is there anything else?” Crowley asked, eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s worried face, fully aware of how cold his tone was. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed. “But I am not sure if you want to hear it. See, as you know, red carnations are not only meant to express longing… but also deep, passionate love. And that is what I have for you, my dear boy. I think I have loved you since the beginning of times, maybe earlier. And I certainly knew I loved you when you saved my books during the war. I knew I loved you when you kissed me at that awful concert and I know that now, as I look at you. I am so sorry it took me so long to… admit that.” 

Now it was Crowley who took a step forward. They were very close then, breathing each other’s air, eyes locked together, none of them daring to blink as if they feared it might scare the moment away. 

“Angel, my love,” Crowley began and the soft, deep tone of his voice came as a surprise even to him, “do you remember in the Garden of Eden, where we first met?” 

Aziraphale nodded. 

“Do you remember how you asked my name but I never asked yours?” Crowley continued. He watched as Aziraphale searched his memory and observed exact moment when he realised it was true, followed by a breathy “you’re right”. 

Crowley took his hands into his and held them tight in between their bodies. “It’s because I already knew you. From before I fell. And I’ve admired you then and whatever I was, I yearned for you. And whatever I’ve become, I still yearn for you. My being is yours and yours alone, angel. And it’s not the wait I mind, not really, in the grand scheme of things. It’s the being apart. I would happily wait another six thousand years for you to come around if you needed me to. Just don’t leave me alone. Please.” 

As you’re probably aware, demons rarely beg. Aziraphale felt the tears slowly gathering at his eyes and as soon as one rolled down his cheek, Crowley wiped it off with his thumb. His hand remained on the angel’s cheek. The tenderness of this gesture and the love he could see – the love he could feel coming from Crowley in waves – felt like it might have been too much for Aziraphale yet it was also perfect. Heavenly. 

“I promise,” he whispered, his voice soft. “I love you, Crowley,” he added, closing the gap between their mouths and kissing his demon passionately. 

“I love you, too, angel,” Crowley replied into his lips. 

Aziraphale smiled. Nothing has ever tasted as sweet as this.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please make sure to leave a comment if you enjoyed and i will blow you a kiss x
> 
> if you want to yell about the ineffable husbands together pls message me on tumblr - wartimelovers
> 
> peace out!


End file.
